When Kidlock Meets Kid-John
by lemonrum
Summary: When seven-year-old Sherlock meets seven-year-old John at his hideout in the tree... Very soft and cuddly.


When Kidlock meets Kid-John

Girls are stupid.

And so are boys.

Stupid.

Little Sherlock bit his lips against the burning pain in his legs, willing it to take him just a few steps further from that dreadful place called school. No, he was NOT going to cry. That's what the Girl did, and it was loud and annoying.

Sherlock thought to himself as he eased up into the branches of his hideout. His eyes involuntarily taking in the little details. Fresh scrapings on the bark, so someone must have been here recently. Peeled in various places. Been here many times then, and not a careful climber (too bad for his hideout.) But he couldn't be bothered to find a further spot due to the dull ache in his scraped knees.

Stupid.

Girls are loud and annoying.

Boys too.

A brief look at the knees told him they won't be infected, though it will leave bruises for several days if left untended. His right cheek hurts as well, slight bruise under the eye.

But he is _angry_ now, so they can wait. Yet the problem is that he isn't really angry, like the last time he felt when Mycroft took away his frog. (He was _exploring_ it, and it was _fun_, can't he see that?!) This time it felt different, not that hot feeling in the head, but something stuck in his chest. (Could he have caught a lung disease?) His eyes widened at the thought, then dismissed it quickly. No, it was not like the flu, nor pneumonia. Definitely. This one feels more painful, which was frustrating since he couldn't see the reason (the knees don't count, he always get those and it never troubled him before.) So he decided to figure things out before he got home.

Always the best cure for everything, he pulled out a magnifying glass from his trouser pocket, the one hidden from sight, near the left foot. Also the one that wasn't allowed at school and gotten him into all the trouble. The Girl (he didn't bother name her, the one that always wore brightish pink) had announced her new jumper to be made of her mother's unique knitting technique, unable to be copied or machine made. He (of course) scoffed at the statement, only to be challenged that he needed to prove it, which he gladly accepted. The simplest way would be to study the knitting pattern using his magnifying glass, and then figure out the constitution of each stitch. Yet Teacher told Mummy that he wasn't allowed to bring his lens to school, (he used them to_ study_!) so that method is unavailable. (No, he wasn't _pouting_ when he said that to Mummy, no matter what Mycroft said.)

Then the alternative is more straightforward. He took out his scissors from his pencil case, the one he had found in Mycroft's experiment room. (It was very good at cutting the frog, much better than the one Mummy gave him for cutting hexagonal snowflakes, so he decided to borrow it.) He looked at the pink jumper. The overall knitting pattern was quite simple, which he could observe even without his glass, though the shoulder knitting seemed quite interesting, so he could start with that. But when he went to extract his sample, things began to go wrong. His sample specimen would not stay still and keep quiet, which was distracting and dangerous. _Stupid_.

Though he was rather shocked when a red gush opened under his scissors, and blood flowed out. A living, wailing specimen pouring blood is quite different from the dead frog he had explored. An uncomfortable feeling twisted through his guts (not sick, just uncomfortable), and the commotion around him is not helping. _So loud_. He had covered his ears, accidentally cutting his right cheek, but anything to keep out the noise that had turned to a high-pitched ringing sound which made him panic.

Someone pushed him and he fell, sprawling on the ground, scraping his knees. The pink Girl's little Bodyguard. Boys are just as stupid. All around him there was shouting, and everyone seemed to be trying to grab him.

Why are they _so_ _loud_? He can't even think properly (which was really horrible.) There was too much noise, and so many people. _Touching_ him. Too close. Need some air. Need to get _out_.

Pushing past all those in his way, he stumbled out of the building, and ran as fast as he could to put more distance between himself and the confusion.

Now safe at his hideout, calming his breath, he realized he had lost his scissors. (Too bad. Mycroft will have to lend him another one.) Heart still pounding in his ears, Sherlock decided that dead frogs are much better than living people. Yes, dead ones are definitely better.

And girls are stupid. Boys too.

Satisfied with this new found knowledge, he cleared away all the uncomfortable thoughts and focused on his exploring at hand.

Now, where did that beetle go? He had been experimenting on lady bugs that have just emerged from their pupas. He read that if you poke them off the branch within a few hours of emergence they would not grow spots[1], which he found quite interesting, so he decided to try it. Last time he really took a whole day and found that the bug really did not grow spots, but it wasn't moving much when he was finished with it either. (Maybe this time he shouldn't let it fall off the tree?) He set to a new set of investigations, gradually becoming oblivious to the world.

Ah, found one. Pretty little thing. Translucent and with its skin still quivering, standing still besides its cocoon. Brilliant. No spots now. (Perhaps they will grow fewer spots the harder you poke them?)

He paused slightly as he heard a faint rustling sound coming his direction. The light footing told him it was a child, who is trying to be stealthy but failing. And from the approaching noise, it was coming his direction definitely. He groaned dramatically, inwardly hoping the other boy (of course it was a boy, the way he ran made that quite obvious) will hear it and head off. Seems like he's going to meet his new co-habitant of the hideout after all. He glared at the twig he just picked in his hand, as if that will make the newcomer disappear. (Maybe he can glare at him to make him back off? It had worked well several times. Mycroft doesn't count. How can he be _cute_ when he is glaring? And that was the only time Mycroft called him cute, it was insulting. So maybe he shouldn't glare then.)

Just as various evict-the-newcomer plans flitted across his mind, the sound of peeling bark screeched in his ears. He winced, wanted to cover his ears again, and wondered if trees do hurt (need to investigate, next time maybe.) He seemed to have underestimated the not-careful-climber part earlier. The climber seemed to have realized that as well, for he paused slightly, then resumed with less commotion.

Deciding to "welcome" the newcomer, he stared down as hard as he could (stare is different from glare, or there shouldn't have been two words, but Mycroft did once say that English is often redundant), directly into a pair of clear, dark eyes caught wide with surprise.

The newcomer was blonde. Judging from the way he crouched on the tree, he was quite short, a few inches less than himself, but same age. (He once read that age may be hard to tell from the face only, but the other boy's choice of clothing and hairstyle indicates school, one year probably, so seven then.) Tanned and solidly built, well worn shoes, so he often played outdoors. Queer that they never met before. Eyes slightly red and puffed, cried on his way. Shirt and trousers recently washed but smelled of dust, maybe doing clean-up at home? No, he was dressed ready for travel, moving away then. Ah ha, that explained the tears (See, he wasn't that terrible with emotions like Mummy and Mycroft once discussed in the study. And they didn't know he was listening, because he had dedicated himself to be a spy then, so he could tiptoe very quietly.)

Satisfied with the results of his looking (yes, really _looking_,though why other people only notice the obvious colours and shapes is beyond him), he turned to stare into those dark eyes once more. Maybe this won't be as boring as he feared. Though he was rather surprised when the boy smiled shyly at him.

"Can I, er, join you?" The blonde boy spoke tentatively, his voice plain, polite, and slightly hoarse from running and climbing. Nothing that really stood out, but it somehow felt a little different from all the other voices he'd heard. (Mycroft told him the difference was called tone, and it was a great indication of emotions and thought processes, but he has yet managed to understand the mechanism. And since he had just decided living _Homo sapiens _to be horrible specimens, that investigation could be put back to later.)

He wanted to say "No, go away" but Mummy had just_ insisted_ this morning that he should be polite and smile back when others smile at him. He had managed a grimace at Teacher to avoid Mummy prodding him, so he definitely wouldn't smile back now. Instead, he just nodded curtly and returned to his work.

The branches croaked under the newly added weight, leaves rustling as they were pushed aside. The boy took the branch opposite him, swinging his legs, which made the tree sway slightly. He frowned.

Not seeming to realize he has just annoyed his new neighbour, the blonde boy spoke up again. "I'm John."

John. Name just as plain.

"Can you pass me that leaf?" He pointed to the one he had wanted to use but got pushed out of the way when the other boy climbed up. Slightly out of reach.

John looked lost for a moment, as if digesting his words (they are always so _slow_), then passed him the sharp tipped leaf.

"What are you doing?" He asked, apparently forgetting the answering name he'd been expecting. Good.

"I'm doing an experiment," a correct but unclear answer. Seeing that John is about to ask for the obvious details, he added "on lady bugs." That should normally be enough, so he proceeded quietly with his experiment. But John is still looking at him expectantly, which is rather distracting, and he felt in the mood to explain (explaining to other people is deemed as polite, too), so he decided to add some more. "I want to see whether they grow spots if I poke them just after they come out of the pupa."

Instead of the dull "Oh" he'd been expecting, John's eyes just grew brighter and wider, a clear sign of interest and curiosity (_finally_, someone not so dull), so he thought maybe he should explain the whole experiment to him. Surely a bit more knowledge would be much welcomed?

He started from where he saw on Mycroft's textbook (no he didn't mention it was Mycroft's) the life cycle of butterflies, (i.e. larvae, the egg, to caterpillar, to pupa, the cocoon, to butterfly, etc.) to his discovery of the symmetry (i.e. two sides equal and opposite) of the spots on lady bugs using his (i.e. Mycroft's legally, but he used it more often so it should also be his) microscope (no, it was a _microscope_, not the magnifying glass he was holding, and this one was different from the kind you buy at supermarkets because it was Mycroft's, too.) Then how he read on the internet (yes, Mummy allowed him to use the computer two years ago as his birthday present) about the disappearing spots (of course Mummy was great!), and how he accidentally disabled (i.e. killed) his last sample (i.e. lady bug), which he was reluctant to admit (but it was true now that he thought about the symptoms, and Mummy said you have to tell the truth.) And that leads to the reason why he is poking at the young lady bug at the moment. So there.

Finishing without panting (good, he was getting more efficient), he looked triumphantly at his neighbour, daring him to insult his genius, because he always found a smart way to retort them. He could clearly see the confusion turning over in John's head, which is written all over the deeply burrowed brows (pale with a variety of slightly different hues of yellow, interesting.) Those dark eyes slowly focused, as if dragging thoughts together, or rather trying to figure out what to say, since his mouth opened and closed several times, until it finally produced the words, " That's…"

Disgusting? Weird? Horrible? There are so many ways to finish such a sentence (and he'd heard most of them), but he wasn't expecting it to end in "Cool!"

Sherlock blinked.

"That's cool! It must be so much fun!" John exclaimed, and those dazzling eyes locked his gaze, the ear-splitting smile overwhelming him.

A feeling similar to when he made a new discovery bubbled inside him (Mummy said it was pride, but he disagreed) and his face seemed to involuntarily imitate the beaming grin before him (are grins infectious?) "Do you really think so?" He couldn't help but ask, hating it when people lie to him, because he could always tell (well, most of the times.)

"Yeah! You will be the greatest scientist in the world!" John waved his hands at him proudly. (Why would John feel proud if Sherlock were to become a good scientist? Surely pride should be expressed to oneself, or family members as Mummy insisted.)

"No, I don't want to be a scientist." He cocked his head to one side, looking directly at his new found acquaintance, eyes flashing mischievously, "I want to be a pirate!"

Sherlock wondered for the seventeenth time why he brought someone whom he had just met for little over fifteen minutes to his secret hideout. Before he could dismiss the seventeenth reason why he shouldn't, they had already rounded the corner and disappeared through a clearing in the bushes, into a small thicket in the corner of the park, where no one ever seem to pay any attention to. Unless, of course, they knew where to look. It really was an unassuming little patch of wood from the outside, but with a little patch of clearing on the inside that resembled, unmistakably, a…

"Ship. Wow, this is your ship." John exclaimed, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Yeah, I named her Megachasma. " Sherlock puffed his chest infinitesimally, feeling proud as he presented his vessel and seeing someone admire her. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all, he decided, as he watched John glancing around with unmasked admiration, dark eyes sparkling even in the shade of the trees.

"Megachasma?" John mused.

"Yep, it's from my favourite species of shark. They are slow and relatively harmless, but very mysterious. I love mysteries." He looked around his favourite outing as well. (Being a pirate hold so much mysteries and adventures, he just couldn't help but prefer it over the spy.) Plucking out the glasses from his treasure hoard in the tree hole, he held it out to his new friend, " Here."

"Why, that's a spy-glass!" John suddenly exclaimed, marvelling as he took it with care. "Did you make it yourself?"

Sherlock nodded. Actually, it was two halves of a binoculars taken apart and rearranged so that it was able to be elongated and focus on varying distances (he had learned that from the book on navigations he had taken from Father's locked study. Yes, he could pick that one long ago because no one ever goes there so the lock is old. And of course he returned the books, eventually.) What made it special was that it was the binoculars he and Mycroft used when they went stargazing the night Father was Gone. (The capital "G" indicated it was a proper noun, meaning that he did not believe Mummy's theory that Father went on a LOOONNNG business trip, nor others' idea that Father was dead. Father was just Gone. Full stop. Though he did secretly fancy that Father went on a secret mission, so he decided to be a spy then.) He hated star-gazing ever afterwards, and decided astronomy would be the last subject he would study.

"You are a genius." John exclaimed beside him, drawing his attention back to reality. It was not like those praises Teacher gave him the first few days at school when he got full marks, which changed to a squirmy scowl after the first time she discovered the caterpillars in her bun (she had screamed then, which was even more horrible than the Girl). Nor was it like the phrase Mycroft often begin with before a lecture (which was always followed by "but…".) Yet something (the "tone" he supposed) in that plain voice made him relax.

"I know." He retorted softly, without the usual annoyance and bite that accompanied it.

Reaching into the familiar slots under the bush, he pulled out two wooden sticks roughly made to resemble swords, handing one to a bewildered looking John.

"Wow, you are prepared." John stroked the wooden handle fondly.

Not bothering to correct his incorrect assumption, he took out the pirate's hat that he'd treasured ever since his first and only trip to the seaside (he eventually admitted to Mummy that he liked the sea, even if there was too much sand as he had assumed before the trip), and hung it upon a branch slightly out of reach for John.

John looked at him bemusedly.

"So…" he seemed to be contemplating his words, his posture changing slightly as he stood more upright (presumably to make oneself look taller, normally showing a lack of confidence, or was it? He couldn't quite remember, anthropology really was not his favourite subject, too many variables unable to control) "Whoever wins…"

"…gets to be Captain." Sherlock finished for him (Finally, he could practice his self-taught fencing on something other than a sapling. He loved this game.)

"I learned fencing," John said with a smile. A polite warning, but there was no doubt a slight tremor of pride inside it. (Interesting, so it wasn't a lack of confidence, a sign of dignity and seriousness then, perhaps?)

"So did I." With that, he lunged at the other boy.

They parried with their wooden sticks, soon becoming a tangle of flailing limbs and forgetting about their sticks completely.

After dodging between branches and groping in the dirt, Sherlock finally managed to pin the shorter boy down, jabbing a random branch he'd caught during the fight into a recently dirtied chest. (Too bad for the laundry, certainly not fit for travel now. Good news for John then, that will probably delay their plans, even if just by a little.)

"Gotcha!" He panted triumphantly, momentarily pushing aside the urge to use proper vocabulary.

John panted beneath him, catching his breath from the wind of the fall. "Now that," he said as he finally managed to slow his breathing, "was not a proper fight at all. So do I get to walk the plank now, Captain?" his dark eyes glittering playfully.

"Nope." Sherlock got off the smaller boy, helping him up from the ground. Then he added in a serious tone, "You get to be my first mate."

John raised his pale brows, and then brought his hand into a proper salute, "Aye, aye, Captain."

After a moment of the silent seriousness of the ceremony, both boys burst into a fit of giggles.

They laughed together as they sat side-by-side in the dirt, not caring about the state their clothes were in. Sherlock decided then that the experience of giggling was not as horrible as it how it sounds, though he couldn't quite imagine giggling to be pleasant in other situations. (So was it a special case? He needed more data, though the thought of conducting giggling experiments with Mycroft or Teacher abhorred him.)

He was startled out of the horrible thought by a slight pain in the right cheek, though it was the cause of that pain that really startled him. A dirty little index finger was tracing its way lightly across the reopened cut, wiping away a drop of blood that was induced from the previous activity.

"You are bleeding." John commented on the obvious, a deep frown creased his forehead.

Sherlock blinked. (Of course he was bleeding, the cut had barely dried before their little fight, and he had made no effort to fix it. Not because of anger this time, or whatever feelings he had felt then, but because he was much too preoccupied, with this new found specimen that he had discovered so many potential experimental topics, of course.) But that wasn't the point.

_Strange. The feeling was strange. _(He liked strange things, though he disliked admitting them.) He had not felt flinchy when John had direct contact with him, nor the awkwardness and panic when others were being too close to him. Now _that_, was a phenomenal discovery, worthy of investigation. (He pushed away the slight unease at thinking this as an experiment. But, what else should a strange phenomenon be?)

He looked up at the independent variable before him, and wondered whether he should directly ask John to touch him again. (Would his specimen be upset by this? No, specimen seemed unsuitable. His John? No, that is even more inadequate. It was usually not his concern, but the last experience with an upset specimen was not pleasant at all.) Though he was saved from the dilemma as short fingers circled his wrist in a firm grip.

The fingers were slightly calloused, the pen-holding one rougher than the climbing ones and the leash-holding one (had a pet, some months ago, at least). The hand was as grimy as his, covered in the dirt and sweat that was evidence of constant exploration ("sign of naughty boys" in Mummy's words). They were slightly shorter and chubbier than his, and the grip was quite strong (helping with chores and light work at home, and quite often). Conclusion: John was left-handed, and the experience was not wholly unpleasant.

He looked up to see John grinning at him, with face still flushed from the earlier exertion.

"Now," John beamed at him, eyes twinkling playfully in the setting sun, "I get to show you my secret."

Sherlock had to admit he was quite disappointed upon seeing the leaking water hose at their destination. But then again, surprises are often hidden in unsuspected nooks and crannies, so maybe it had some peculiar qualities he had not noticed before?

A single spurt of water drizzled out of the broken hose, forming a little puddle on the ground around it. He let John pull him down onto the pavement beside the puddle, squirming a little as the other boy instructed him to sit still (he hated being instructed, and even more so sitting still. It reminded him of Teacher, which was a nasty comparison. Curiosity only held him stationary.)

He watched John fish around in his trouser pockets, soon producing a small bundle tied by a handkerchief. Unlike the state John's clothes were in, the hankie was immaculately clean, very much unlike a boy's (John had even bothered to wash his hands in the broken sprinkler before touching it, handling it with such care as if he was using the microscope. Maybe it was an experiment inside? Always surprises to look forward to.) He craned his neck to see John unwrap the mysterious hankie, and felt very much crestfallen when he saw its contents. A few balls of cotton, several bandages, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer (possibly to be used as an antiseptic, judging from its relation with the other contents.)

Realizing what John was about to do, he felt even more restless (NOT squirmy, that was a horrible choice of words earlier, a problem he should have avoided after Mycroft's continuous mockery of his _childish_ vocabulary.) One thing he hated more than being touched was being _handled_ by others.

"One moment. Hold still." John looked up from the work in his hands, reassuring him with a tentative smile.

He pouted (no, protruded, he doesn't _pout_) his lips, watching bemusedly as John fumbled with his equipment (see, he was not the only one being restless here, someone seemed even more inexperienced with this job.) He supposed that should be reassuring, not the fact John was grinning at him mildly (smiling was a common way to show pleasure and comfort, though he never found them very pleasant and comforting before, so Mycroft's theories with human socialization have faults, too. Ah ha.)

"There." John exclaimed satisfactorily, holding up a cotton ball dampened with water from the hose. "Can you sit a bit closer?" John looked hesitantly between him and the cotton, probably wondering what he should do with it. Sherlock stood (sat?) his ground, refusing to budge and be handled.

John sighed good-naturedly. "Ok, you are my first patient." He claimed, denoting it formally as if this was an important event. "I want to be a vet."

Sherlock's lips twitched, wondering why he should be treated by a vet. "After your puppy died?"

John seemed startled by this, "How'd you know that?" (Oh, he hadn't really meant to say that out loud, but sometimes he just couldn't help it.)

Sherlock shrugged, "Your left hand, it's got calluses and a few cuts from holding the leash, so you had a puppy. But they are rather worn, so you once had a puppy, some weeks ago. And you seemed very serious and a bit sad when you said you want to be a vet, so something bad must have happened." (so very likely died, he mentally added the conclusion, somehow feeling that he shouldn't say that out loud.) He looked over at John, not sure what he should expect.

John stared at him for a few moments, dumbfounded. Then, still with a shocked expression, he exclaimed, "Good God, you really are a genius."

Sherlock wondered if it was the expression that was on John's face that was so funny (he doubted. He later realized that the feeling of relief can also cause various strange reactions), but he did giggle a second time that day. Trying to quiet the strange gurgling sound that seemed to be rippling through his body, (how can that be physically possible? Was this called resonance? He should look that up when he get home. Hmm, house to be more precise, don't want to think about it for now.) He couldn't help but grin and repeat himself, "I know."

John smiled back. Then he turned his gaze away, looking down at the damp cotton, pinching it with his fingertips. "Gladstone was hit by a motorbike, it was three weeks ago." His voice was subdued. Then he added, "I watched him grow up as a puppy."

"Oh. That's…" Sherlock searched in his mind for how to reply, "I'm sorry." (That seemed to be the proper phrase, at least it was what Mummy told him to say when his Great Aunty died, though he was perplexed why he should be sorry because he didn't do anything wrong.)

"Nah, it's okay. He was a good pup, so he should go to puppy paradise. I just didn't like being so helpless when I watched him got hurt." John gave a faint shrug, as if pushing off the sudden burden that seemed to have just weighed on his shoulders. Then, looking at Sherlock, he held up the slightly pinched cotton, "But now, we get to work." He gave a toothy smile.

Sherlock's face pulled. He tried not to flinch as the cool cotton came into contact with his right cheek. He felt rather than saw the cotton dampening away the dried blood caked on his face. John seemed rather cautious in applying force to the cut, for it didn't hurt as much as it itched. He stifled a giggle.

In silence, John cleaned his wounds, dabbing cautiously but with a steady hand. Sherlock watched as John wipe away blood and dirt from his knees, the cotton giving a warm pressure to each stroke. The sanitizer tingled, shooting up hot spurts of pain that he had long grown accustomed to. All the while he was observing John, not without wonder in his eyes.

It really was a wonder. He, Sherlock Holmes, was actually sitting still as instructed and being handled without struggling, and most of all, his mind wasn't coming up with all the possible ways to escape such a situation. Conclusion: he was actually enjoying this idle silence. With John.

"Okay, done!" The exclamation cut through his train of thoughts, drawing him back to the plain boy tending his cuts. Wounds cleaned and freshly bandaged. Not very expertise, but it could be seen that it was done with care. Then John looked up at him, and he realized that he had just made the worst set of reasoning of all.

John was not plain. Definitely.

John was looking at him expectantly, eyes glittering with the triumph of a job well done. Those eyes were of a deep sea-blue, clear and yet consisting of an endless varying hue like the forever shifting ocean bed. So deep, that you could drown in them.

And reflected in those eyes, was himself.

A scrawny boy with dark curls and pale face, thin neck supporting a head that seemed too large for such a body. It was an amazing experience, like looking in a convex mirror but not quite so. At that moment, the most obvious observation was that John was really seeing _him_, and the opposing conclusion made him shudder. No one had really seen _him_ before. (One of the rare things he agreed with Mycroft's lectures was that eyes showed emotion. Combined with facial muscle tension and body language, the special glint in the eyes can show such a wide range of emotions, it appeared quite a mystery to him. The knowledge had been quite helpful in avoiding unnecessary trouble. But now, that idea was challenged by the question, what would happen when you no longer see someone else, with all their emotions and thoughts inside their eyes, but find instead yourself?)

"Thank you." He murmured the phrase, for the first time willingly.

John's expression softened (if expressions really can get softer), and sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching. He could feel the heat radiating from a body so near. Slowly, John began relating to him his times spent with Gladstone, the good ones and the bad ones. They joked on the time that John's sister almost threw Gladstone out for "borrowing" her new lipstick, and the time the poor pup was confused when he was scolded for "bringing" the newspaper. Sherlock always, as usual, made scoffing comments and ridiculed John's parents for expecting so much of a pup, (though he would have had higher standards if Mummy allowed him to keep one, but you couldn't expect too much of others.) and John didn't seem to mind this at all. He really was wonderful. (Full of wonder would be a more precise rephrase, but he preferred this one.) Sherlock then decided that chatting (i.e. the situation he now found himself in) was not so unpleasantly dull and awkward as he had feared, though that is highly conditional, currently consisting of one very specific condition.

The sun, on its continuous journey to the west, finally skimmed the hem of the trees, casting its last rays of red and gold towards the earth. Catching such a ray, John's eyes were illuminated and shone with such an intense sea-blue that he was mesmerized in its shifting colours, just like how he became fascinated by the sea. "Your eyes are sea-blue." He couldn't help but comment.

John agreed, "Your eyes are silver, just like the stars."

Silver. A strange description of eye-colour, people normally describe them as grey or greenish grey. He pointed that out for John, who giggled in return.

"Well, it was a strange colour. But it's pretty." John's last comment made his nose wrinkle in distaste. (_Pretty?!_) Then the shorter boy suddenly seemed to realize something really important (Ah, he finally caught up. Did that realization just took hours? Amusingly slow.)

"Hey, I don't even know your…"

"John." Sherlock muttered, looking past John's shoulders.

"Hmm?" John seemed surprised at the call.

"You'd better get going," seeing the other boy's confused expression, he kindly added, "I believe that's your parents looking for you." He pointed into the distance, some hundred meters from their little hideout.

"Oh," John looked past his shoulders, "right."

For a moment, he seemed a little lost for words. Both boys were silent for a while, unsure of how to react to such an occasion. Sherlock tried a tentative smile, which was instantly wiped off his face as he was pulled into a tight embrace. His body went entirely rigid, and his mind totally shut off in his shock.

Just as quick as the assault, John pulled back and beamed at him, "Well, hope I can see you again, someday."

"Goodbye," He said quickly, then added with a playful wink, "whoever you are."

Sherlock smiled mischievously, then, being another of so many "first's" since meeting John, he willingly said, "Goodbye." (I'm quite sure we'll be seeing each other again. Sooner if not later. He mentally added.)

With a polite nodded and a final smile, John turned and took off in the direction of the calling that even a less keen ear can now hear.

Sherlock waved as he watched his friend-at-first-sight (yes, he is capable of recognizing friends _and_ keeping them) disappear among the trees and groves, setting off with his family to who-knows-where (he could probably find out if he really wanted to, there were so many ways. But somehow, just this once, he wanted to be patient, and wait.) At that moment, he was certain with all his instinct and logic that they would meet again, and the only problems were, when, where, and how.

[1] www. baike. baidu view/ 125765

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